
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf 


Copyright No. 

Vz 3 

,As7*f 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 































































* 




















I 



i 


I 



From sunlight to Shade 


NEW YORK. 


BY 

GRENVILLE ATKINS. 

'i 



THE NEELY COMPANY. 

PUBLISHERS, 

CHICAGO. LONDON. 


2102 


Library of Congrese 

Two Copies Received 


JAN 5 1901 



SECOND COPY 


FZ 3 

,A?7Y 


QeOvwrod to 



WOl 


Copyright, 1900, 
by 

ARTHUR CHESHIRE NEELY 
in 
the 

United States 
and 

Great Britain. 

All Rights Reserved. 





CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER L 

PAGE 

The Skeptic 7 

CHAPTER H. 

The Zealous Believer 28 

CHAPTER HL 


The Apostate. 


47 




From Sunlight to Shade. 


CHAPTER L 

THE SKEPTIC. 

As flowers turn to the sun, so did Eugene Lamar 
and Emily Fields turn to each other, even in their early 
childhood. They grew up together in the quiet, beau- 
tiful little town of Greenbrier, where they attended the 
same school and Sunday-school and were always pro- 
moted together from one class to another. 

Eugene could not remember when he had not looked 
upon Emily as his future wife. Of course this childish 
courtship was a source of amusement and admiration to 
the neighbors. There were those who said that the 
time would come when these young lovers, each 
married to soma one then unthought of, would discuss 
their early attachment with merriment; others believed 
that they would never grow away from each other. 

The two children were quite different. Engene was 
always like the sunshine, bright, cheerful, sanguine, 
though quiet in his ways. Emily was no less amiable 


8 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

than he, but it was more natural for her to fear than to 
hope, to doubt than to believe. Eugene’s faith in the 
doctrines taught him in home and Sunday-school never 
wavered; Emily received the same instruction, but the 
fact that many men have many minds was a source of 
constant unrest to her. 

“How do we know we are right?” she used to ask. 
Then mother or minister or friend would proceed to 
give what seemed to him or her incontestable proofs of 
the truth of the Church doctrines. But Emily was never 
more than half convinced, it always seemed to her just 
as likely that some other creed contained the truth as 
that her own did. The question was, How should she 
learn which one of the many religious bands in the 
world was really* right? As she entered her teens, she 
was told that it was time for her to think of con- 
firmation. 

“But I cannot profess to believe the creed when I am 
not at all sure it is true,” she objected. Parents, friends, 
the clergy, all agreed that it would really not be 
right to admit to the communion a person of such unset- 
tled beliefs, but they thought it very strange that her be- 
liefs should be unsettled. They held to the articles of 
faith without a doubt and it seemed to them as though 
the mere statement of said articles ought to be suf- 
ficient to insure credence. 


The Skeptic 


9 


For several years Eugene delayed his confirmation, as 
it was his ardent desire that the solemn rite should be 
administered to himself and Emily at the same time. 

“I wish it could be so,” she would say, “but it will 
be of no use for you to wait for me. I am a born 
doubter.” 

At last, both being fifteen, and Emily’s views re- 
maining as firmly unfixed as ever, Eugene reluctantly 
presented himself as a candidate for confirmation. The 
ceremony took place on a lovely summer night. The 
church was bright with lights and sweet with the pro- 
fusion of flowers that had been gathered in honor of the 
occasion. But the cheer of her surroundings did not 
communicate itself to Emily’s heart. Her spirits were 
weighed down by a melancholy sense of isolation. When 
Eugene left her to go to the chancel rail a wave of bit- 
terness swept over her soul. How straight, how tall and 
manly he looked ! What would she not have given to be 
at his side? But no; here was something which she 
could not share with him. It seemed so wrong that she 
should be a mere onlooker. She felt as though this one 
slight separation were the beginning of a gap which 
would widen between them as the years rolled by. When 
Eugene knelt to receive the imposition of hands, she 
gazed at him through tears. 

The services over, Mr. and Mrs. Fields and the boy 


10 From Sunlight to Shade. 

and girl lovers left church together. The older couple 
walked on in advance, while the others slowly followed 
them, talking in gentle tones. The night was calm and 
bright, and the very essence of peace seemed to perme- 
ate the air, but the soothing influences of nature did not 
quiet the unrest of Emily’s mind. There really seemed 
to he no good reason why she should be sad, but for all 
that a gloomy foreboding possessed her soul and refused 
to be cast off. 

“I should have been perfectly happy to-night if you 
had only been confirmed with me,” Eugene said ten- 
derly. 

“Oh! Gene, I think I should have been so too,” 
sighed Emily. “But you have done well not to wait for 
me, for I know I shall never, never be confirmed.” 

“Oh ! you would be so much happier if you could only 
have a firm belief, like the rest of us !” 

“Oh! Gene, I know it. I can never be truly happy 
without believing — something — but I guess I was pre- 
destined to be unhappy, for it is evident that it was 
never intended I should have faith.” 

“I am sorry to hear you say that, Emily. God wishes 
us all to believe.” 

“Well, why have I never been able to do so then? I 
am sure I have never put obstacles in my own path. I 
have always wanted to be a good Churchwoman; or, at 


The Skeptic. 


fl 


any rate, to be able to believe something with all my 
lieaTt and mind and soul and strength.” 

“Well, you may lose faith in yourself, Emily, but I 
shall not lose faith in you. Some day you will see how 
reasonable all the doctrines of the Church are, and these 
doubts will cease to trouble you.” 

There seemed to be heaven’s own benediction in Eu- 
gene’s smile as he parted from Emily that night, but it 
served only to intensify her presentiment of coming sor- 
row. 

Not long after this Eugene began to express his in- 
tention of entering the ministry. 

“The older I grow the more I feel drawn toward the 
life of the sanctuary,” he said to Emily one day as they 
were walking together. 

“And so you have fully made up your mind ?” 

“Yes, fully. I am sure that it is my duty to prepare 
myself for holy orders as soon as possible.” 

“I am so glad,” exclaimed Emily, looking up with a 
smile of pride and love. “I would rather see you a min- 
ister than anything else; you seem just fitted to be 
one. How proud I shall be when I see you an ordained 
clergyman !” 

“Are you not afraid of making me vain?” Eugene 
asked with that sweet smile of his that warmed the 
hearts of old and young alike. 


12 


From Sunlight to Shade. 


“No, indeed! I do not believe any one could make 
you vain,” was the confident response. “You never go 
about boasting, like most other boys; you are always 
modest.” 

“Then you would be glad to see me a minister, al- 
though you are not a Church woman ?” He was curious 
to see what reply she would make. She looked up at 
him with a very serious face. 

“Yes, indeed, Eugene ! It seems to give me a little 
strength to see others strong. You are strong because 
you have faith to strengthen you. I am weak because 
I stand alone facing problems that I can't solve. But 
I rejoice that you can believe; I would not for worlds 
see you a wanderer like me. A wanderer; that is just 
what I am: every day I go exploring, but every night 
I lie down to rest without having found a clue to what I 
seek. You are safe in the haven of faith.” 

“But you are not at all sure that I am right; then 
how can my faith give you strength?” 

» “Of course I don't understand how you can be cer- 
tain that you are right. A great many people of dif- 
ferent beliefs have thought they had the truth, but you 
know all of them can’t have had it. So I don't see that 
there is any more probability that you are right than 
there is that Luther or Wesley was. But, for all that, 
I like to know that other people have fixed beliefs. 


13 


The Skeptic. 

They seem then like rocks to lean upon. Their feeling 
of certainty is infections in a way. I do not enjoy talk- 
ing with those who are like myself, for they help only 
to confirm me in my doubts.” 

At this time Emily and Eugene were attending high 
school together, but the next year, both having grad- 
uated, the youth made preparations for entering a theo- 
logical seminary. Then came the first parting of these 
lovers. It was hard for both. 

“Be sure to write to me every day,” Eugene said 
earnestly. “At the best, letters are poor substitutes for 
the spoken words of those we love, and they cannot come 
often enough or be sufficiently long to make up the de- 
ficiency.” 

How lonely the beautiful little town seemed to Emily 
when Eugene had gone! Alone, she frequented those 
places where she and her lover had walked together ever 
since she could remember. And the winds seemed 
hushed because he was not there, the trees and shrubs 
moved their branches as though in mournful medita- 
tion over his departure. Yet, as she wandered thus, Em- 
ily became conscious of a sense of companionship. The 
spirit of Eugene Lamar seemed to hover about her, like 
a guardian angel. In the utter simplicity of her love 
she wrote him of this, and he replied that her spirit 
seemed ever present with him. And, what reason have 


14 


From Sunlight to Shade. 


we for doubting that those two loving souls did thus 
hold silent communion with each other? 

In the consciousness of the other’s spiritual nearness 
each was comforted. Probably they realized the depth 
of their love as they had never done before. 

If Emily had other admirers she was too blind to see 
it, and they, perceiving this blindness and its cause, 
withdrew their attentions in discouragement. It did 
not occur to Emily that any one but Eugene could care 
for her. She gave no thought to others, not even a fem- 
inine vanity leading her to look for admiration. 

How blissful for her was the first Christmas after 
Eugene’s going away; for then he returned, more 
manly, more attractive than before. She had not 
thought of finding him altered, and when he came to- 
ward her with a smile and words of greeting, she was 
speechless for a moment, in shy surprise. What a happy 
hour they spent late that afternoon, seated by a cheerful 
fire, while the shadows of coming night deepened around 
them! The fears and doubts that had been troubling 
Emily’s soul retired to the background. The soft, low 
voice, the tender, soulful eyes of Eugene Lamar charmed 
them away. Perplexing questions were forgotten in the 
joy of the present. Ah ! happy are those who can thus 
give themselves up to the enjoyment of the passing hour ! 


The Skeptic. 


15 


Others there are who can find for their souls no retreat 
whither care is unable to follow. 

The Christmas vacation truly passed “like a dream,” 
as novels say, and when the ensuing separation came it 
was to the two young people as the awakening from sleep 
is to one who has been immersed in the joy of some fair 
vision of the night, ignorant of the fact that it could 
last for but a brief space of time. 

Now the clouds of doubt began to brood again over 
Emily’s soul. She was wandering in search of truth, 
traveling the same apparently endless road over which 
she had toiled from her early childhood. And now 
her spirit was absolutely weary. 

“If I could only stop thinking about religious mat- 
ters and rest my poor, tired soul,” she said in one 
of her daily letters to Eugene. “But I cannot do that, so 
there will never be any repose for me until my tempest- 
tossed bark finds its way into the haven of faith. I am 
afraid, however, it will never do that. There is no light 
ahead ; all is dark.” 

So the weeks and months passed, yielding to Emily 
the happiness of love and the sorrow of doubt. All her 
life had these two gone hand in hand with her. 

At the age of nineteen she found herself con- 
fronted by another trouble which became a second skel- 
eton in her closet. It appeared in the shape of a dread 


16 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

probability that poisoned the cup of love from which 
she had heretofore quaffed daily draughts of consola- 
tion. And it appeared suddenly. 

One day, being in conversation with an aunt, she al- 
luded to her obstinate skepticism, whereupon her rela- 
tive said with an amused laugh: 

“You will make a strange wife for a minister, Emily, 
if you don’t change. Think of a rectory presided over by 
one who does not know whether to accept the doctrines 
of Buddha or those of Christ !” 

These careless words instilled an entirely new idea 
into Emily’s mind. She wondered that it had never oc- 
curred to her before. Was it likely that Eugene would 
marry her as she was? He had always loved her, cer- 
tainly, but then, he had never considered her doubts as 
lasting. Besides, would not the man be governed by 
considerations that the boy would have ignored? She 
expressed her fears to no one, but brooded over them in 
her own heart. 

All this while she gave herself to the service of the 
Church in every way that she could. She loved the 
Church, for Eugene was one of its members. It was his 
glory, and therefore hers, even though she doubted its 
doctrines. 

As yet, Eugene’s mind harbored no thought of dis- 
loyalty to his childhood’s love. In his letters, and in 


The Skeptic. 


17 


his conversation when at home, he continued to allude 
to a future in which they two should be joined, never 
to part. These allusions caused Emily a happiness that 
was alloyed by pain. She felt sure that he had never 
stopped to ask himself what it would be for him, as a 
minister, to take a skeptic for a wife. She was often 
strongly impelled to lay the case before him as it stood, 
but for a long time she could not bring herself to do it. 
Suppose this new view of the matter should weaken his 
resolve to marry her? She well knew that he would 
never give up his calling for her sake, and she would 
not for worlds have had him do so, had he been thus 
disposed. Entering the ministry was a matter of con- 
science with him, and she would rather have died than 
that he should sacrifice his sense of duty to marry her. 
If there really were a God, would He bless a union which 
had taken place through a disregard of the Holy 
Spirit’s voice? Besides, she could not have so great a 
respect for Eugene, were he to do what he believed to 
be wrong through the force of her attraction for him. 
But she did not fear lest he offer to make such a sac- 
rifice. She had known him all her life, and knew his 
integrity to be such that, once having become convinced 
of the duty of pursuing a certain course, he could not be 
turned aside. Ho. He would either give her up or 
marry her as a minister. 


18 From Sunlight to Shade. 

One day she could refrain no longer, and impulsively 
spoke out the thought that had been troubling her 
bosom so long. It was during Eugene’s summer vaca- 
tion. They had taken a stroll to one of the picturesque 
lakes included within the limits of the town, and were 
sitting on the shady bank with their hats off, enjoying 
each other’s society and sweet communion with sympa- 
thetic Nature. 

“Only a few months more of study in that dreary 
town so far away from all that is dear to me,” said 
Eugene, looking down fondly at the girl beside him. 
“Then will come my ordination, and very soon after 
that I hope to be able to claim you as my own indeed. 
A little more separation, and then the happiness of being 
with you always.” 

Emily raised her head with an impetuous movement 
and looked up directly into those blue eyes which to her 
were mirrors of heaven. 

“Eugene, have you ever thought of the difficulties 
that lie in the way of your marrying me ?” she asked. 

The young man had never heard her speak like this be- 
fore, and he was naturally surprised. Emily, watching 
his countenance anxiously, saw it take on a puzzled ex- 
pression. Evidently this idea was new to him. 

“Difficulties?” he repeated. “I don’t understand. 
What can ever come between you and me?” 


19 


The Skeptic. 

These words sent a thrill of gladness through Emily’s 
heart, but she knew that the ordeal was not yet over. 
She must explain herself. 

“Eugene, how can you, when you are a minister, 
marry a skeptic?” 

He laughed one of his soft, low, musical laughs. 

“What difference should your skepticism make ?” 

“Did you ever know a clergyman whose wife could 
not believe in anything?” asked Emily. 

“I believe not.” 

“And I guess you never heard of one, either.” 

“I cannot remember hearing or reading of such an 
instance, but you see, Emily, I am not thinking of 
precedents in connection with our marriage. We love 
each other, and that is enough.” 

“But have you ever thought of the consequences of 
such an act?” continued Emily. She was trembling 
with apprehension. What would be the outcome of this 
interview ? 

“I confess I never have, and I fail to see the neces- 
sity of doing so,” said Eugene. 

“I wish you would think of the matter now, then, 
for my sake, Genie. Of course, we have always talked 
as though it were certain that we should be husband 
and wife some day, but now we are both old enough 
to weigh well all considerations. We must not rush 


20 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

blindly into matrimony just because we have been 
lovers all our lives. Let us see what we are doing.” 

“I defy you to give a single good reason why we 
should break our vows,” said young Lamar. 

"I am not saying that we should break our vows,” 
said Emily. “What I mean is that we ought to give the 
subject serious thought, instead of proceeding to be 
married without any consideration, simply as a matter 
of course. Such an attitude was perfectly proper, 
in fact, charming, when we were children, for we could 
not marry then and so were running no risks ; but now 
that we are old enough to carry our plans into execu- 
tion, we ought to look into the future and see just what 
we may expect if we marry. In the first place, I am 
not a heretic exactly, because heretics do really believe in 
something — not a heretic, but a born, confirmed skeptic. 
You, on the other hand, have been a loyal Episcopalian 
all your life. This difference between us has not, to my 
knowledge, estranged us in the least — ” 

“Why, Emily, I couldn’t love you better if you were 
the stanchest Churchwoman that ever lived,” inter- 
rupted Eugene. 

“Certainly I have no lack of interest in the 
Church,” said Emily. “I love it with all my heart, and 
nothing would suit me better than to perform the duties 
of a rector’s wife. It would not be as though I were a 


21 


The Skeptic. 

scoffer or indifferent, going about my tasks in a half- 
hearted way. Still, willing as I am, I could not perform 
such duties as a rector’s wife should. My lack of belief 
would hamper me in spite of myself. How could I com- 
fort a poor, bewildered soul, with doubt blinding my 
own eyes? Besides, could you ever grow accustomed 
to seeing your wife kneeling in her pew all during the 
celebration of holy communion, instead of going to the 
chancel rail with the rest? And don’t you know that 
your parishioners would be dissatisfied? I could never 
be popular with them. I do not speak of this because 
I thirst for popularity, Genie. What troubles me is 
the thought of the effect of my unpopularity upon you. 
If a minister love his wife, how can he be happy when 
he knows that she is a subject of ill-natured gossip with 
almost every person in the congregation ? Of course I 
know that the larger proportion of clergymen’s wives, 
no matter how devout church members they may be, are 
most unmercifully criticised. But if this is the fate of 
the average minister’s wife, what must be that of that 
marvel of marvels, a skeptic linked in marriage with a 
preacher of the Gospel ? Besides, dissatisfaction is con- 
tagious sometimes, and it seems to me that there is 
danger of the minister’s coming, by slow degrees and 
almost unconsciously, to look upon his wife something 
as others do,” 


22 


From Sunlight to Shade. 


“I shall never accept any one's estimate of my wife, 
unless it exactly matches my own/' said Eugene earnest- 
ly. “Never harbor such a fear, darling ! The criticism 
of the whole world could never abate my love for you or 
my respect for you by a hair's breadth.'' 

“Well, we will pass over that phase of the question. 
The most important consideration is yet to be named. 
Genie, you ought to realize that you cannot do so well 
the work God has called you to do, with me by your 
side. If we marry, I shall forever be a hindrance to 
you. 

“You are entirely wrong ! Without you I should be 
hampered indeed.'' 

“Oh! Genie, you do not understand. As a minister 
you will be supposed to possess the power of illumining 
darkened souls, of convincing the skeptical, of bringing 
peace to the afflicted. Well, then, if you marry me you 
can never have much influence. People will not have 
faith in you. They will say, ‘What is this man who 
goes about in the attempt to convert souls, and yet has a 
wife at home who is a confirmed skeptic ? Why does he 
not convert her? If he cannot make her believe, how 
can he be expected to convince those whom he sees but 
occasionally? Then I shall have the torture of see- 
ing that you are unjustly criticized. Unjustly, I say, 
for the fact that you were unable to convince your wife 


The Skeptic. 


23 


would not show a lack of ability on your part, but a state 
of confirmed doubt on hers. I do not believe St. Paul 
himself could convert me. But the world is apt to be 
uncharitable, and you would have to suffer — and, con- 
sequently, others — all through me. Now, I do not 
mean to stand in the way of your doing good.” 

“Then you mustn’t refuse to marry me, or you will 
certainly do that very thing,” said Eugene. 

“Tell me truly, Genie, had you ever thought of these 
things before ?” 

“No, Emily, I had not.” 

“Don’t you see that I am right?” 

There was just the slightest hesitation on Eugene’s 
part; then he answered: — 

“I feel that I need you for my helpmate, and I can- 
not believe that it would be right for me to give you up. 
God would never call upon me to root out of my heart 
a love that He Himself had implanted there.” 

The discussion ended here, but Emily was not yet 
satisfied. Eugene might yet alter his mind. He had 
not had time to meditate upon what she had said to 
him. The truth is that until that hour she had not 
thought of her marriage with him as being an obstacle 
to Eugene’s success as a minister. She had realized 
the unpleasantness to which it would probably give 
rise, and it had been a question with her whether 


24 From Sunlight to Shade. 

Eugene loved her well enough to marry her in the face 
of such probabilities, or whether, having taken such a 
step, his affection would survive the tests to which it 
would undoubtedly be put. But during her argument 
with Eugene, a new view presented itself to her. She 
felt that however firm and devoted he might be, his 
power for good must be lessened by such an alliance; 
therefore, the plain conclusion was, that in being true 
to her, he must be untrue to his highest sense of duty. 
So it was, that between her love and her conscience, 
she hardly knew what to wish. The spirit of love 
prayed that Eugene’s resolution might not fail him; 
conscience whispered, “Let him do his duty.” She 
knew that she would be incomparably wretched were he 
to give her up; but she also felt that, under the cir- 
cumstances, she could never marry him, even were he 
to urge her repeatedly to do so. 

When Eugene went home that evening his heart was 
light, his mind untroubled. He had not begun to 
weigh Emily’s words. All her objections seemed to 
him without good grounds. After supper, being alone 
with his mother, he told her what the young girl had 
said. 

“She shows a clearness of mental vision remarkable 
in one so young,” commented Mrs. Lamar. “I, well 
as I know her, must confess myself surprised that such 


The Skeptic. 25 

ideas should have entered her mind. However, I quite 
agree with her.” 

“You do?” cried Eugene, in surprise. 

“Yes. Emily is a very fine girl, one whom any 
mother might be proud to claim as a daughter-in-law, 
but I have thought many times lately that she could 
not make you a suitable wife. If you were not called 
to the ministry, all would be well ; as it is, I think such 
a marriage could not fail to result disastrously. I have 
not said anything, for I could not bear to mar your 
happiness; you have always been so fond of each other. 
Besides, I have been hoping that Emily would come 
into the Church at last; but I am now inclined to the 
opinion that she is right in calling herself an incurable 
skeptic. She has the good sense, remarkable in one so 
young, to see that she cannot properly discharge the 
duties of a rector’s wife, and for that good sense I honor 
her all the more. My regret that you must give her 
up is deeper on account of it. You might search long 
among the faithful daughters of the Church and not 
find one so worthy of you as she is.” 

“Mother, I am very sorry to see you take sides with 
Emily in this matter. I hoped that you would help 
me to overcome her scruples,” said Eugene, with a 
troubled face. 

“I wish that I could, dear, but it is impossible, I see 


26 From Sunlight to Shade. 

so clearly that Emily is right. An unconverted wife 
would be a perpetual drawback to you. I know how 
hard it will be for you to give her up, but it is neces- 
sary that you should do so. Had she not spoken as 
she has done, I do not know that I could ever have had 
the heart to suggest such a thing. It would have seemed 
so cruel for you, after courting her all your life, to re- 
fuse to marry her at last. It would have seemed ter- 
rible to so disappoint her trusting love. But now, she 
herself has made the way clear for a breaking of vows. 
I have not the least doubt that her affection for you is 
as strong as ever, but as she has voluntarily offered to 
sacrifice love to duty, you can have no scruples in doing 
likewise. You have not even hinted at such a sacrifice 
on her part. She has suggested it with a knowledge 
of your complete loyalty to her.” 

Eugene lay awake for hours that night, trying to 
solve the problem that had come so suddenly to disturb 
the calm happiness of his life. He was obliged to admit 
to himself that there was reason in what his mother and 
Emily had said; still, he could not make it seem right 
to cast to the winds the love of a lifetime. He had al- 
ways regarded intuition as a safer guide than reason, but 
in this case, he feared that what appeared to be an in- 
stinctive perception of duty was but the persuasion of 
love, in disguise. When sleep finally overpowered him, 


27 


The Skeptic. 

the problem was still unsolved, and it greeted him in all 
its perplexity as soon as he awoke the next morning. 

Eugene did not shun Emily while pondering this mat- 
ter. During the few weeks that preceded his return to 
college, the two took their usual leisurely walks, and saw 
as much of each other as before. But Emily, with quick 
perception, discerned a change in her lover's manner. 
He could not conceal from her the fact that his mind 
was preoccupied. The young girl knew very well what 
produced his absent air, but she did not once again touch 
upon the subject with which she had dealt so plainly. 
This was the first trouble that they did not share to- 
gether, and for that very reason it was hard to be borne. 

The vacation came to a close, and the young people 
separated once more. Again there were letters daily re • 
ceived and daily answered, but alas ! the correspondence 
was no longer quite what it had been. Eugene's mis- 
sives, although full of affection, were pervaded by a 
certain reserve that had never before existed in them. 
There was no more allusions to the time when they 
should be married. The truth was, that Eugene's 
problem had reached a solution. The youth believed 
that he would not be justified in marrying Emily as she 
then was, but he could not think of contracting matri- 
mony with any other. He would wait and hope, and, 
should Emily become a member of the Church, he would 


28 


From Sunlight to Shade. 


then hasten to claim her as his bride. But he shrank 
from telling her his resolve, frankly as she had spoken 
to him. Emily, however, needed no statement of this 
from him. She knew very well that he had come to 
a decision; she also knew what that decision was, and 
the knowledge brought her mixed pain and relief. 

“We shall never be more to each other than we are 
now,” she said to herself, “for the reason that I shall 
never become a churchwoman. He will not swerve 
from the path of right even for love’s sake, and I honor 
him for it. But — life will be one long disappointment 
to me.” 

Like most of us, Emily was not sufficiently thank- 
ful for blessings already possessed. 


The Zealous Believer. 


29 


CHAPTER II. 

THE ZEALOUS BELIEVER. 

While Eugene was at the depot, waiting for the 
sleeper which should bear him home to all the joys of a 
Christmas vacation, he was accosted by a Mr. Rathbun, 
a family friend whom he had not seen for several years. 
This gentleman informed him that he and his daughter 
were going to spend the holidays with relatives in Green- 
brier, and expected to reside there permanently. Eu- 
gene was delighted at the prospect of having their com- 
pany on his way home, especially when he saw Miss 
Rathbun, whom, as it happened, he had never before 
met. She was a rather pretty girl of eighteen, tall, 
quiet, and happy looking. She and Eugene proved to 
be kindred spirits. Though so young, Miss Rathbun 
was already very actively engaged in religious work. 
While perfectly girlish in speech and manner, she was 
bound up, heart and mind, in the Church. 

“How I wish that Emily had her unwavering faith,” 
Eugene said to himself as he watched the bright, ani- 
mated face of his new acquaintance. 


30 From Sunlight to Shade. 

Once in Greenbrier, the young student actually forgot 
the very existence of Miss Rathbun. His mother had 
kindly invited Emily to spend the day with her, so he 
had the pleasure of meeting at one time all those who 
were nearest and dearest to him. Emily had grown 
rather pale during the autumn, but now the roses in 
her cheeks revived. There was no mistaking the look 
of eager love in Eugene’s eyes when he greeted her; 
and she could not fail to perceive that not for a minute 
that day was she absent from his mind. Even when he 
was talking with the members of his family, his eyes 
would wander to her, and always with that expression 
which filled her soul with the rapture of heaven. 

The next morning Eugene, going out for a stroll over 
the crisp snow, met Miss Rathbun, and there immedi- 
ately sprang up in his mind a vivid recollection of the 
pleasant hours he had recently spent in her company. 
He not only raised his hat and greeted her with a smil- 
ing “Good morning,” but abandoned his course and 
walked by her side. She was so radiant that morning 
that her very presence was an inspiration. The frosty 
air had brightened her eyes and colored her cheeks until 
she looked like Hope incarnate. Not one little cloud 
of doubt dimmed the sunshine of the soul that shone 
forth in her face. 

The next day was a busy one in the little church of 


The Zealous Believer. 


31 


Greenbrier. Wreath after wreath took form under the 
industrious fingers of the village girls, and to the nim- 
blest and handiest of the youths was assigned the task of 
hanging them. In the afternoon, the choir met to 
practise the Christmas music. 

When Emily entered the church to perform her 
duties (she had been organist for a year), the bright 
faces of the young people, the profusion of the evergreen 
decorations, and the sweet smell of the pine needles 
seemed like messengers of faith and peace to her soul. 
She greeted her friends with a happy countenance, and 
passed on to the organ, about which were clustered the 
waiting singers. 

The rehearsal had not progressed far when the door 
opened, and Eugene entered, accompanied by Miss Kath- 
bun. A little thing, this, but enough to plunge the 
soul of Emily Fields beneath the waves of desolation. 
The odor of the pine seemed sickening to her, and the 
cheerful faces of the workers a mockery. She felt that 
the long-ago prophecy of her heart was nearing fulfil- 
ment. The rehearsal went on, but it seemed to Emily as 
though all the joy had departed from the jubilaw 
Christmas songs ; she heard her grief and yearning low 
in every line. 

It was again chance that had brought about the 
meeting between Miss Kathbun and Eugene Lamar. 


32 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

The young man had overtaken his new friend as she 
was on her way to the church, and he had naturally 
slackened his pace and walked with her the rest of the 
way. It did not occur to him that his conduct might 
pain Emily. Having reached the church, they founT 
plenty of employment awaiting them, and engaged a 
once in the agreeable occupation of wreath-making. 
Quite naturally, too, they remained together, alter- 
nately chatting and listening to the music. 

“How pretty the organist is,” exclaimed Celia Rath- 
bun. “Who is she, Mr. Lamar? I am sure I should 
like her.” 

“I will make you acquainted with her,” said Eugene, 
who had flushed with pleasure at hearing this praise of 
Emily from feminine lips. “That is Miss Emily 
Fields, a very old friend of mine. We grew up side by 
side.” 

So it was that as soon as the rehearsal was over, 
Eugene hastened to introduce the two young women to 
each other. The meeting was one of unalloyed pleasure 
to Miss Rathbun, who had at once felt drawn toward one 
so different from herself. As for Emily, she could not 
look at Celia nor hear her speak without experiencing 
pain, yet the very fact that she was a possible rival lent 
her a peculiar interest in her eyes. 


The Zealous Believer. 


33 


“I hope you will stay and join us in our work,” said 
Celia, smiling, as she saw the other buttoning her wrap. 

“Yes, you mustn’t go yet, Emily,” exclaimed Eugene. 

“I have a headache and think I would better go home,” 
replied Emily. She was conscious of speaking in a dull, 
lifeless manner. 

“Oh! I’m sorry you’re not well. You would have 
so enjoyed working among the fragrant evergreens,” 
said Eugene, as he walked with her toward the door of 
the church. He accompanied her home, but did not 
make a call. 

“I will let you rest now,” he said, “and in the even- 
ing I will come to see you.” 

Emily watched his retreating figure through the hall 
window until she saw it disappear within the church. 
Then she turned and went upstairs to her room, choking 
with sobs. 

“He would rather be there with her than here with 
me,” she gasped. Off came hat and jacket, and then 
poor Emily flung herself face downward upon the bed, 
to weep out her sorrow alone. 

Now she, as loving, sensitive souls are wont to do, ex- 
aggerated the meaning of a trivial thing. In reality, it 
was not a preference for the society of Celia Bathbun 
which led Eugene to leave Emily that afternoon. The 
latter had complained of a headache (which was, by the 


34 From Sunlight to Shade. 

way, no fictitious one) and her manner was so lifeless, 60 
indifferent, that it seemed to him she wished to 
be left alone to rest. Hence his words at the door. 
He could see 1 no reason, however, for avoiding the so- 
ciety of his fellow-beings until it was time to call upon 
Emily, therefore he returned to the church, to engage 
in a task that pleased him, and in cheerful con- 
versation with his friends. In acting thus he did 
not have Miss Rathbun specially in mind, yet, 
once more among the evergreens, he found himself de- 
voting the most of his attention to her. The very spirit 
of Christmas seemed to shine in her face and echo in 
her voice. When the work was over for the day, he es- 
corted his new friend home. Yes, friend. He felt 
proud to call her thus to himself, she was so helpful, so 
inspiring. 

But to return to Emily. Having indulged in a hearty 
fit of weeping, she began to be concerned about the effects 
of it. She was ashamed to show red eyes even to the 
members of her own family and assuredly she could 
not meet Eugene with swollen lids and husky voice, 
Weeping had increased her headache, and with this for 
a plea, she could remain in her room until morning. 
She was not inclined to do so, however. Engene’s vaca- 
tions were all too short at best, and she could not deny 
herself the pleasure of even one interview with him; 


The Zealous Believer. 


35 


therefore she labored diligently and with good success 
to remove the traces of lachrymose indulgence. Eugene 
called early, with a lover’s eagerness apparent in his 
manner. So, for the time being, Emily forgot her 
fears. 

Mrs. Lamar was not slow to perceive in Celia Rath- 
bun those qualities which had won her son’s admira- 
tion, and in contemplating them she often thought, 
“What an excellent wife she would make for a minister.” 
It was very gratifying to her to see Eugene’s interest 
in the young girl, and she endeavored to increase it by 
a word of praise now and then, always taking care to 
avoid the appearance of speaking with a purpose. 
She was not unrewarded for her pains. Gradually, even 
imperceptibly to himself, Eugene’s thoughts were drawn 
more to Celia, and in the same proportion were they 
diverted from Emily. If any one had questioned him 
in regard to his feelings, and he had seen fit to answer, 
he would have declared unhesitatingly that he cared 
for Emily as much as he had ever done, and that Miss 
Rathbun was no more to him than a much-appreciated 
friend. The crisis had come, but he was unaware of it. 
He could not see that this new friendship was merely 
the beginning of his separation from Emily. As yet, 
although he had renounced the idea of marrying her 


36 From Sunlight to Shade. 

as she was, it had not occurred to him as a possibility 
that he would ever wed any one else. 

His Christmas vacation was a period of alternating 
hope and fear to Emily. When it was over, she ad- 
mitted to herself with many tears, that at no previous 
holiday vacation had she ever seen so little of him. 

They continued, indeed, to correspond, but not only 
were Eugene’s letters marked by an utter absence of the 
old allusions to their future marriage, but their tone 
was unmistakably less loving. Toward the close of the 
winter they began to grow shorter; then they failed 
from time to time to come daily, as they had always 
done before. 

“He is approaching graduation, and must be unusually 
busy and anxious,” she said to herself. But 
such reflections as these could not afford h^r consola- 
tion for long periods of time. Again and again did she 
find herself forced to face the unwelcome truth. Extra 
study and anxiety could never have produced these 
changes. 

Much as Emily longed to see Eugene again, she 
dreaded to meet him, for she felt sure that she would 
find him altered from what he had been at their last 
parting. Time proved that she was right. Affection- 
ate he still was, but not like a lover. 

In less than a week after his return home, Eugene 


The Zealous Believer. 


37 


was ordained. The little Greenbrier church was lavishly 
decorated for the occasion, and the congregation was 
so large that several were obliged to stand. They did not 
give a thought to the discomfort of their position, how- 
ever. They would have subjected themselves to far 
greater inconvenience rather than miss seeing their en- 
siastic young friend admitted to the diaconate. 
The eyes of old and young rested upon him in 
affectionate pride. Many of those present had held him 
in their arms when he was a speechless baby. He had 
grown up under their eyes, and their interest in him 
was almost parental. In all the congregation there was 
but one sad heart. Emily Fields, like the others, was 
proud of the young candidate, and glad to see him at 
last in what appeared to be his rightful place, but her 
joy was more than balanced by sorrow. She saw in all 
this a widening of the gulf between them. She remem- 
bered the wretchedness that had possessed her soul the 
night of Eugene’s confirmation; but that state of mind 
now appeared heavenly to her in comparison with that 
in which she now found herself. The sorrow of six 
years ago had foreshadowed her present grief — yea, she 
reflected, and greater grief yet. The drama was not yet 
ended. The clouds were gathering thick and heavy 
about her, and the worst was still to come. Little by 
little she was descending the dreary slope leading to 


38 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

an abyss of utter gloom. A great wave of anguish rolled 
over her soul when Eugene, kneeling, received the im- 
position of hands. 

“Oh! my beloved, come back to me, come back to 
me, for I am all alone !” cried the desolate spirit. And 
when, invested with the deacon’s stole, the young man 
rose to his feet, Emily felt the tears rush to her eyes. 
But pride, by a mighty effort, forced them back. 

At last, the services closed, to the great relief of 
Emily, who hastened home to give her pent-up emo- 
tion full expression. Once in her room, she abandoned 
herself to a violent fit of weeping. Her sobs shook 
and choked and exhausted her, but she did not care. 
In her well-nigh hopeless grief, she wished that she 
could cry herself to death then and there. 

“If I only had some religious belief, it would not be 
so hard,” she exclaimed to herself. “If I could go to 
God and tell Him all my troubles — but how can I know 
that there is a God? I am so lonely; I have always 
been lonely ! Everybody must be who is without a God. 
And now I am lonelier than ever, for I am deprived of 
the one I love. Oh! the one I love! That means 
everything to me. Oh ! if I had a God, I would beg Him 
to take away all my possessions, my health even, if 
need be, rather than the love of Eugene Lamar. Eugene 
Lamar! First and last with me! You may love some 


The Zealous Believer. 


39 


one else, but 1 never shall. Yon are the only God I 
have ever known, and now the clouds are hiding you! 
Why am I a skeptic? Why am I blind, while so many 
others see — or think they see? I have been in the 
dark all my life, and I have tried, oh! so desperately 
hard, to escape, but I am as fast imprisoned now as 
I was when I was six years old. And other people are 
born free, and never know anything but the clear light 
of faith. . . . Ought I to repine, when it 

was I myself who made Eugene see the unwisdom of 
marrying me ? And ought I to be sorry now for what I 
said that day ? No, I ought not, for I could never make 
a suitable wife for Eugene, while Celia Rathbun would 
— and will. But oh! I am human, I am not one bit 
divine, and the thought of seeing my Genie married to 
Celia is like the cold hand of death!” 

Eugene Lamar was at once appointed to take charge 
of the Greenbrier parish during the coming six months’ 
vacation of the rector, Rev. C. B. Lawn. So, for the 
present, he would remain at home, much to the delight 
of his relatives and friends. 

During that first summer of his ministry, his friend- 
ship for Miss Rathbun throve apace. She, with her 
bright faith and hope, seemed a more satisfactory com- 
panion than Emily, with her dark doubts and fears. 


40 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

He realized, almost unconsciously, that Celia possessed 
the very qualities to make her a model wife for a clergy- 
man. 

So, little by little, influenced by his loyalty to the 
Church, drawn on by the sympathy which existed be- 
tween himself and Miss Rathbun, he drifted away from 
Emily. She, meanwhile, with that pride with which 
womankind is endowed, endeavored to seem indifferent 
to this change in her lover’s feelings, and acted as though 
the separation were due as much to her as to Eugene; 
but her grief soon made itself manifest in loss of flesh 
and color, so that all the villagers knew her sad secret. 
A few waxed indignant against the young minister for 
deserting his boyhood's love, but the majority thought 
that under the circumstances he had acted for the best ; 
yet, this view of the case did not lessen in the least 
that majority's sympathy for poor Emily. 

In October, when days were cool and nights were chill, 
and a certain melancholy in the air told of the year's 
approaching dissolution, the engagement between Eu- 
gene and Celia was announced. This was the final blow 
to Emily’s hopes, and now her decline became rapid. 
Eugene was her world, her heaven, her God, and in los- 
ing him, she felt that she was losing all. As a conse- 
quence, her interest in life vanished. There was no 


The Zealous Believer. 


41 


longer any ambition, any aspiration to feed the vital 
flame, and so it burnt lower each succeeding day. 

“I am leaving the certain for the uncertain,” she told 
herself. “I am leaving all that I know and all that I 
love, to pass out into a great, strange country. I hope 
that when I die, I shall die indeed ; if there is a heaven, 
it would offer no charms to me. Existence must mean 
sorrow, therefore I pray that I may not exist, but lose 
myself and my woe in an unfathomable sea of oblivion. 
Only annihilation can bring me peace.” 

Her parents would never give up hope in Emily’s re- 
covery. They could not realize the possibility of their 
being visited by so great a sorrow as the death of their 
only daughter. 

The reader naturally wonders what were the feelings 
of Eugene at this time. Emily’s failing health was a 
source of great concern to him, although he now re- 
garded the girl merely as an old and very dear friend. 
Strangely enough, however, it did not occur to him that 
he was responsible for it. Emily had congratulated him 
upon his engagement as a sister might have done, and 
she never seemed averse to discussing his future. It 
seemed to him that the old affection had waned equally 
on both sides. 

Again came the holiday season, and again the little 
Greenbrier church was sweet with the odor of ever- 


42 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

greens. One 'sunny day, Emily proposed going over to 
watch the work of decoration. 

“But I am afraid you are not well enough,” sai (f Mrs. 
Fields. 

“Oh ! yes, I am. I am stronger to-day,” said Emily. 
Her mother looked at her with a smile. Surely she 
appeared brighter than she had done for some time 
past. Perhaps the change, the smell of the evergreens, 
the cheerful chat of the decorators, would help her. 

“Very well; let me wrap you up warmly and you 
may go/” 

As Emily slowly wended her way churchward, she 
thought of that day, a year ago, when Eugene entered 
with Celia Rathbun during the Christmas rehearsal. 

“Another Christmastide, and he will have been mar- 
ried,” she thought, with a shudder. “But I shall not 
be here then. Oh! if I could live. Life would be a 

beautiful thing to me, in spite of my doubts, if — if . 

But that is all over now — the bright hope, the happy 
dream of the future. I have no God, no religion, no 
faith, and but one hope — nothingness.” 

When Emily pushed open the church door, the first 
sight that greeted her eyes was that of Eugene and 
Celia, engaged in wreath-making. The transient color 
faded from her cheeks, but as the couple looked up, 
the old pride-given smile rose to her lips. 


The Zealous Believer. 


43 


“It seemed as though I should be better if I were to 
come and inhale this refreshing piney odor for a while,” 
she said. 

Ah ! to her friends it seemed a mockery for her to talk 
of being better. What could a little improvement 
mean but a flattering phase of the disease that was 
surely bearing her on to the tomb? But the young 
folks stifled the sighs that rose from their bosoms, and 
spoke cheerily to her. 

“How long it has been since I last touched the organ,” 
Emily presently exclaimed. “I believe that I will try 
some of those Christmas hymns that I played last year.” 

So saying, she seated herself at the organ, and com- 
menced to play. Alas! the notes did not swell forth 
loud and triumphant, as they had done a year before ! 
The motion of the pedals was feeble and unsteady, and 
her fingers trembled as they touched the keys. Her 
voice trembled too, as she sang the dear, familiar hymns 
that to her were full of untrusted promises. And each 
one, with its burden of sweetly sad associations, robbed 
her of a little of her newly gained strength. She felt 
the sands of her life running rapidly through the glass 
of time ; she seemed to be slaying herself with the sword 
of music. There was a blazing fire in the stove; it 
crackled and roared merrily, until the dull iron glowed. 
But why did the air seem to grow steadily chillier 


44 


From Sunlight to Shade. 


around her? Her head felt light; the figures of the 
decorators looked misty. Her sorrow seemed to clutch 
her heart like a groat heavy hand. All was trouble; 
there was no beam of joy anywhere. Ah ! those Christ- 
mas songs of rejoicing were a mockery ! Half mechani- 
cally, she turned the leaves until she reached hymn No. 
348. Ah ! that was better ; she was so wretched, and that 
mournful tune was like the wail of a lost soul. She 
pushed in Flute and Viola, and, with only the softest 
stops open, began to play and sing. 

“When our heads are towed with woe. 

When our titter tears overflow. 

When we mourn the lost , the dear, 

Jesus, Son of Mary, hear!” 

Did she not “mourn the lost, the dear”? What a 
blessed privilege to give utterance to the sorrow that 
was crushing out her life. 

“Thou our throtting flesh hast worn, 

Thou our mortal griefs hast tome, 

Thou host shed the human tear; 

Jcsu, Son of Mary, hear!'* 


If there were a Christ, upon Him only could she call 


The Zealous Believer, 


45 


now, when all that had made life dear to her was slip- 
ping from her grasp, and with it, life itself. She could 
hardly see the printed letters, and the notes were all 
a blur, but instinctively her fingers touched the right 
keys, and the words of the third verse rose spontaneously 
to her lips. 

“When the solemn death-bell tolls 
For our own departing souls, 

When our final doom is near, 

Jesu, Son of Mary, hear!” 

As she sang these last lines, there was something 
in Emily’s voice that caused her hearers to look up in 
alarm. One glance at the swaying form and fix- 
ing eyes was enough to tell the story. Eugene gave a 
cry and sprang to the singer’s side before any one else 
could reach her. 

“Oh ! Emily ! Emily ! what is the matter ?” he cried, 
although he knew only too well that she was dying. A 
minute later, he had lifted her from the organ bench and 
laid her upon the soft aisle carpet. How quickly was 
that scene of gayety changed to one of mourning ! The 
thoughtless girls who had been singing and chatting so 
happily but a few minutes before, now gathered, with 
white, troubled faces, about the spot where Emily lay, 
her head and shoulders supported by Eugene. 


46 


Frqm Sunlight to Shade. 

With one of the last efforts of her expiring life, the 
poor girl looked up into the face of her childhood’s love. 
It was some consolation to die in his arms, even though 
the old affection were dead in his heart. 

But was it dead? The young deacon did not ask 
himself then, but he felt, as he saw the vital flame 
flickering out, that no sacrifice, even that of his life, 
would be too great, could he by means of it fan that 
flame back into a steady glow. Celia Rathbun was 
close beside him, but he was forgetful of her very ex- 
istence. 

Suddenly, he remembered how troubled and full of 
doubts Emily’s soul had always been. Could it be that 
no ray of light illumined her path now that she was 
close to the gates of death? 

“Oh! Emily! for heaven’s sake tell me that you be- 
lieve,” he cried; “tell me that you are comforted at 
last.” 

“Genie, where am I going?” 

That was all; no word of faith, or even of hope, 
passed those death-chilled lips. Poor Emily was blind 
to the last. A few fluttering gasps followed those final 
words, and then — the bosom ceased to heave. With 
trembling fingers, Eugene closed the eyes that now gazed 
up into his with the meaningless stare of death. 


The Apostate. 


47 


CHAPTEB III. 

THE APOSTATE. 

J.HAT Christmas was a sad one in Greenbrier, for 
Emily’s decease had cast a gloom over every household. 

Mr. Lawn returned from his vacation trip the day 
after the sad event. To say that he and his wife were 
shocked by the news that awaited them, would but 
feebly express the state of their feelings. When they 
left Greenbrier, the previous June, Emily was apparently 
well, and although, in their absence, they heard of her 
failing health, they never even dreamed that she was 
soon to be taken away. And they, childless 
couple, had loved her tenderly ; they had ob- 
served, with the greatest solicitude, her spiritual troubles, 
and loved her more on account of them. And now that 
they returned home at the beautiful Christmas season, 
their hearts throbbing with pleasure at the thoughts of 
being once more in the midst of dear old friends, they 
were met by the news that one of that number of cher- 
ished souls had passed from the earth. 

“We clergymen must needs pass through bitter or- 


48 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

deals/’ Mr. Lawn said to his wife on the day of the 
funeral. “We have to read the burial service when our 
hearts are breaking.” 

Celia Kathbun mourned Emily’s death with unaf- 
fected sorrow. During the one year of their acquaint- 
ance she had come to regard her as her dearest 
friend. Besides, had she not always been like a sister 
to her betrothed? 

A sister ! No one had ever hinted to her that, until 
after her coming, the two young people had been lovers. 
It was happy for her that her grief was not embittered 
by the knowledege that she had been the innocent cause 
of the girl’s death. 

These were dark days for Eugene. He fully realized 
now that he had really loved but once. He saw 
that his engagement to Celia was the result of sympa- 
thetic friendship and the apparent hopelessness of his 
attachment for Emily. He had come to the conclusion 
that the latter was not suited to be a rector’s wife, and 
had plainly perceived that Celia was. So, little by little, 
and influenced by his mother unconsciously to himself 
he had been led on. And even now he believed that he 
had done right. He had loved, it was true, but un- 
wisely ; thus he reasoned. And Emily had grown indif- 
ferent. Probably she had already begun to lose her 
regard for him when she startled him by her argument 


49 


The Apostate. 

against their marriage. Perhaps it was her indifference 
that had estranged him. But oh ! if it could only have 
been different ! If the dream of years could have come 
to pass ! Why this growing apart, and the final separa- 
tion by death? 

“But what right have I to complain?” he asked him- 
self, as he paced the floor of his room, in troubled 
thought. “Is not all this God’s Providence ? He called 
me to the ministry, and put my loyalty to Him to a test 
by demanding of me the renunciation of my dearest 
hopes. Then He sent me the one woman who ought 
to be my companion through life. And yet, minister 
though I am, I find it very hard to be resigned. I 
even find myself regretting my call to the ministry, 

for, had it not been for that . Ah! what am I, 

that I should preach resignation to others! My own 
heart rebels against God’s decrees. It is so difficult for 
the soul to learn submission; to say at all times, ‘Thy 
will be done/ ” 

As soon as the holidays were over, Eugene went to 
take charge of the parish of Hebron, to which the bish- 
op had appointed him. When the next Christmas- 
tide came he returned to Greenbrier for a brief visit, 
during which he and Celia were married, the Rev. C. B. 
Lawn officiating. There was no bridal tour, the young 


50 


From Sunlight to Shade. 


couple going at once to their Hebron home. Six 
months later Eugene was ordained to the priesthood, 
the ceremony being performed in the beautiful little 
town that had witnessed his early baptism, his confir- 
mation, ordination to the diaconate and marriage. 

Celia was extremely popular with her husband’s 
parishioners; she was busy, cheerful and sympathetic, 
and the Hebronites had the good heart and good sense to 
appreciate her admirable qualities, and not seek for the 
faults, Which, being human, she undoubtedly possessed. 
Eugene looked upon her with pride and affection. 
She was the true helpmate that she had given promise 
of being. 

But Eugene felt that something was lacking to make 
his life complete. He often found himself thinking 
that had he married Emily, and she had lived, his ex- 
istence would have meant more both to himself and 
others. And then he would awake from these reflections 
to chide himself for them. Was it not God Who had 
altered the plan of his life, and did He not always know 
best ? Had not the Lord sent him a far better helpmate 
than the one whom he had chosen in his childhood 
days could have been? Surely, a woman of such un- 
bounded faith and vivid hope was a better inspiration 
than Emily, tormented by doubts and fears, could have 
proved. What consolation would she hate had to offer 


51 


The Apostate. 

in the day of trouble ? Had he become despondent, she 
would have made him more so. This was certainly good 
reasoning, but when he had ceased to argue with himself 
thus, there would often rise before his mind’s eye a pic- 
ture of Emily as she looked in the days when they were 
lovers, and with that picture would come a swift, intui- 
tive perception that those days were the best, and that 
in parting from Emily he had severed himself from the 
one true inspiration of his life. Then he would sigh, 
and try to find consolation in the thought that Emily’s 
affections had been the first to wane. 

All this time his wife was in utter ignorance of the 
relations that had once existed between her husband 
and her best friend. Eugene never cared to tell her 
the story of their early love and the circumstances 
which had built a wall between them. 

One day, however, Celia learned the whole story. In 
clearing out an old trunk she discovered a package of 
letters tied with a blue ribbon, and, with natural curi- 
osity, seated herself to examine them. She im- 
agined that they were letters written to Eugene during 
his college days by his mother, and was rather surprised 
when she saw that they were from Emily, but re- 
flected that it was quite natural for a youth to corres- 
pond with a girl whom he regarded almost as a sister. 
But in the course of her reading she came across several 


52 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

allusions which startled her. One of them ran thus : — 

“ Annie’s engagement was very short ; something that 
ours has certainly not been.” 

Now, Celia was not of a jealous nature, but she was 
puzzled and disturbed because she had been kept in ig- 
norance. When her husband appeared at the dinner 
hour, she said: 

“Eugene, why have you never told me that you and 
Emily were once engaged?” 

Young Lamar looked up in a startled manner. He 
realized that his silence was not exactly in his favor. 
He could see that Celia was not angry; there was only 
a grieved wonderment in her tones. He answered her 
question by asking another. 

“How have you learned about our engagement ?” 

“Letters,” was the laconic reply. 

“I suppose I ought to have told you long ago,” said 
Eugene gravely, “but I dreaded doing it. You must 
know the whole now, though, having learned a part. 
Emily and I were more than dear friends and playmates, 
Celia, we were lovers even when small children. I used 
to call her my wife as long as I can remember, and 
I never dreamed of a possible separation until the last 
year of my college life. One day, during my last sum- 
mer vacation, I made, as I was wont to do, an allusion to 
our future marriage, and she entered into an argument 


53 


The Apostate. 

against that marriage. You know she was always a 
skeptic, Celia. Well, she declared that it would not be 
right for me, as a minister, to marry a doubter like her- 
self. I almost laughed at her, for her objections had 
no weight with me. That evening I repeated to my 
mother what had taken place between us, and she, to my 
surprise, took Emily’s part. She said that she herself 
was of the opinion that Emily could not make me such 
a wife as I, being a clergyman, would need. She had 
been hoping that Emily would unite with the Church, 
but had finally come to believe that she would always 
remain skeptical. The result of this talk with my 
mother was that I gave myself up to a consideration 
of the matter, and decided that she and Emily were 
right. However, I had no idea at that time of marry- 
ing any one but my childhood’s love. Should she join 
the Church, I would wed her; if she went through life 
a skeptic, I would go through life a bachelor. Such 
was my plan. But later — I saw you — and — well, you 
know how it ended.” 

Celia was sitting with her hands clasped behind her 
head. Suddenly she said, 

“Eugene, I think I understand now why Emily Fields 
fell into such a rapid decline and died. Your love for 
me broke her heart.” 


54 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

Eugene started and turned pale. If this were so, 
then his burden would be all the harder to bear. 

“Oh ! Celia, don’t say that,” he implored. “Don’t 
tell me that I killed my little sweetheart !” 

As he spoke, he betrayed more feeling than he was 
aware of doing; so much, indeed, that Celia found 
herself wondering whether the new love had entirely 
superseded the old. But she did not give expression to 
her thought. She had no right to cavil at his regard 
for the dead. He himself had evidently been uncon- 
scious of the state of his own feelings. 

“Why, Celia, it was she who proposed that we should 
dissolve our engagement,” cried the young man. 
“Would she have done that if she had cared for me? I 
have often thought that that argument of hers was but 
a tacit avowal of the fact that her sentiments toward me 
had changed.” 

“She realized, no doubt, thar in marrying you she 
would be hazarding her own happiness, and besides, be- 
ing a noble girl, she was unwilling to hinder you in 
your work by giving you a skeptical wife,” said Celia ; 
“therefore, in spite of her love, she spoke as she did. 
Had you remained true to her, as it was your first 
intention to do, I think she would have lived. But you 
did not ; you forsook her for another and that broke her 
heart.” 


55 


The Apostate. 

“But she never betrayed the least sorrow,” cried Eu- 
gene. “She grew gradually more sisterly in manner, 
and when our engagement was announced, congratu- 
lated me with smiling lips and cheerful voice. Could 
she have done that if she had loved me still ?” 

Celia smiled sadly. 

“You have much to learn about women,” she said. 
“Once upon a time, a dear cousin of mine found the 
affections of her lover wandering off to a new object, 
and what did she do? Reproach him for his incon- 
constancy? No! Try to win him back? No! She 
simpjj broke the engagement. The lover never knew 
the true reason for her conduct. She met him almost 
daily afterward ; always greeted him with placid, 
unconcerned look; always maintained toward him a 
friendly bearing. But was her love for him dead? 
Far from it. I was her confidant. When we two were 
alone together, she acted herself, and I was thus witness 
to a slow torture that ended in death. She fell into 
consumption and died, leaving but one soul who knew 
the cause of her demise. 

“Had I known of the engagement between you and 
Emily, her sudden death would not have surprised me. 
In that case, however, I should not have allowed her to 
die at all. I must have known that in wooing me you 
were deceiving yourself; you knew that she could not 


56 From Sunlight to Shade. 

make a good rector’s wife, and that I would, so yon 
drifted into the error of believing that you cared for me. 
I should have nipped that second love-affair in the bud, 
had I known what I do now.” 

There was but little more said then, and afterward 
both avoided the painful subject. 

Now, remorse was added to Eugene’s daily burden. 
He tried to think that his wife’s theory was wrong, but 
once, during a visit to Greenbrier, he happened to over- 
hear Mrs. Fields making a remark which proved that 
Celia’s hypothesis was correct. 

He always resorted to his religion for consolation. 
Time and again he eased the discomfort of his soul by 
arguing that “the hand of Providence” had been in all 
the affairs of his life. Undoubtedly Emily had suffered 
ancklied for the glory of God ; undoubtedly his own course 
had been planned by the Master Mind above. The Lord 
had brought about all these afflictions for a wise purpose. 
But the comfort produced by these pious reflections did 
not long outlast the reflections themselves. Again and 
again he would find himself immersed in a sea of dis- 
satisfaction, feeling that by his own foolishness he had 
thrown away the best that life had had to offer him, 
and sacrificed another human being in doing it. 

How often he thought of Emily’s last words : “Genie, 
where am I going ?” They fairly haunted him at times, 


57 


The Apostate. 

and finally the pathetic question stirred within his soul 
an answering chord of doubt. Then more questions 
came, some of them the creatures of his own brain, 
others, the memory of certain queries that he had heard, 
long before, from the lips of his dead love. These last had 
seemed so easily answered then ; Emily’s skepticism had 
appeared so groundless. But now, to his surprise and 
alarm, he found himself demanding for his beliefs a 
better reason than the authority of the church in whose 
faith he had been brought up. 

What a position was this for a minister! And how 
did he reconcile skepticism with his duties as a priest? 
He took pains to be non-committal in his sermons, care- 
fully avoiding points of doctrine therein. 

He did not look to Celia, that zealous Churchwoman, 
for sympathy in this hour of trial. A confession of the 
state of his mind would only have shocked and dis- 
tressed her. He thought of Emily more than ever now. 
Had he married her, he would not have had to bear this 
burden alone. He became reserved, taciturn, absent- 
minded. His wife felt that there was a wall growing up 
between them; his parishoners began to remark that 
he had undergone some change which rendered him less 
successful as a pastor ; they said that he was less zealous 
and less approachable than he had been. Some gossips 
hinted that he had trouble in his domestic relations, and 


58 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

set about trying to find flaws in his wife’s disposition. 
The change in the minister produced one in his people, 
and presently he noticed that they wore different from 
what they had been ; they were more distant, and seemed 
to avoid confidential talks with him. At first, he won- 
dered at this, and one day he spoke of it to Celia. 

“What can be the matter with my parishioners?” he 
said, as he and his wife sat at the dinner table sipping 
their tea. “The old cordial friendship between them 
and myself seems to be almost gone. Some appear 
timid, others suspicious.” 

“Perhaps they notice that you have changed,” said 
Celia. 

Eugene looked up suddenly. Could it be that his 
skepticism had been suspected ? What had he ever said 
to imply that his faith in the Church doctrines was 
wavering ? 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“I mean that you have shut yourself away from your 
fellow-beings; even from me,” Celia answered rather 
sorrowfully. 

He did not understand. 

“I do not think I am alone very much,” he said. 

“Hot as to the body,” replied Celia; “but your 
spirit seems to be leading a hermit’s life.” 

Eugene did not make any remark, and the subject 


59 


The Apostate, 

dropped. Celia had her own view of the matter. She 
believed that Eugene was constantly regretting that he 
had not married Emily. 

"It would have been better had he done so,” she told 
herself. “Her skepticism would have been no greater 
drawback than the dissatisfaction that his marriage 
with me has caused him. His awakening to 
the knowledge that he never really cared for me has 
altered him sadly, so that he is no longer what he once 
was. In my ignorance, what have I done? I have 
deprived one person of life itself, and ruined the future 
of another.” 

The reader can see that Celia also had her trouble. 
It was a secret one, for she never allowed Er ' c 
to suspect that she felt their marriage to be a fail- 
ure. She knew that he tried to spare her feelings 
by remaining silent in regard to his regrets, and she 
was sure that it would pain him to know that she brooded 
over the mistake that they had made. She had once, 
as the reader will remember, plainly stated that she 
thought his second courtship had been unwise, but 
she did not wish him to think that the matter continued 
to trouble her. Had not other young people, having 
made similar mistakes, been drawn together by time 
and circumstances? However, it did not seem likely 


60 From Sunlight to Shade. 

that she and Eugene would ever be more to each other 
than at the present time. 

Eugene was of a very conscientious nature, and at 
length he found it impossible to continue the double 
life that he was leading. He reproached himself for 
not having abandoned the ministry upon first becom- 
ing skeptical. 

“I have been acting the part of a coward lately,” he 
suddenly said one day to Celia. “I have been silent 
when I should have spoken. I have been deceiving you 
and everybody else, and I can never feel self-respect 
again until I come out boldly and do my duty, let the 
consequences be what they may.” 

Celia looked up in alarm. What could he mean? 
He had a revelation to make, and probably it concerned 
both herself and Emily. 

“In what way have you been cowardly?” she asked, 
with pale face. 

Eugene straightened himself with the dignity of a 
man who is about to face suffering for right’s sake. 

“I have been cowardly in pretending to believe that 
which I doubted,” he said; “in concealing the heart' of 
a skeptic beneath the robe of a priest.” 

Celia slowly rose to her feet and stood gazing at him 
with wide, frightened eyes. 

“Eugene! I don’t understand you,” she gasped. 


61 


The Apostate. 

“You have wondered at my unusual reserve during 
these past few months/’ said the young man ; “now you 
will wonder no longer. I have become a prey to doubts, 
as Emily Fields was all her life. In past days I thought 
it strange that she could not believe ; now I am surprised 
that I could have so long accepted unquestioningly the 
doctrine of the Catholic Church. I see that there is 
so much room for doubt. And yet, rather than break 
your heart and incur the scorn of others, I have gone 
on reading the prayers and administering the rite of 
Holy Communion week after week, and month after 
month. It is no wonder that my parishioners have lost 
faith in me. Their hearts tell them that I am a hypo- 
crite. But a hypocrite I can be no longer. The bish- 
op is over at Beechcroft to-day, and I will go to him 
this afternoon and tell him that I can no longer fulfill 
my ordination vows.” 

Celia stood with her hands behind her; she was pale, 
and there was no trace of hope in her once bright face. 
Finally she spoke. 

“I wish I were dead. The wife of an apostate! 
What shame ! What sorrow !” 

“Celia ! would you rather see me a hypocritical priest 
than an avowed and self-respecting skeptic?” 

“Of course I do not mean that; but I shall never 
know another moment’s happiness. Oh ! Eugene ! To 


62 


From Sunlight to Shade. 

turn against the holy Mother Church in whose bosom 
you have been brought up; the church of your parents 
and their parents; to abandon the faith ‘once delivered 
unto the saints’ ! To forsake the truth ! Oh ! my hus- 
band!” 

“I have not forsaken the truth ; I am in search of it,” 
said Eugene. 

“It is Satan who has put these dreadful doubts 
into your mind,” said Celia. 

Eugene rose with a sigh, and left the room. He 
had been right in believing that his wife would give 
him no sympathy. 

He carried out his intention of calling upon the bish- 
op. That dignitary was never so shocked in his life 
as when this young man, whom he had ordained to both 
of the lower orders, calmly and firmly announced to 
him that he was a skeptic. And he was more than 
shocked, he was wrathful. He considered that Eugene 
had no right to question the truth of the Church doc- 
trines; he regarded him almost as a criminal. 

Eugene bore himself with great dignity. He knew 
that he had nothing to be ashamed of, and so stood 
upright in fearless rectitude. His errand done, he rode 
back to his home, where he found a red-eyed, sorrowful 
wife waiting for him. His nature was a sympathetic 
one, and he loved his wife, so her distress made him 


63 


The Apostate. 

wretched. He took her in his arms and tried to soothe 
her, but she seemed deaf to everything but the voice of 
her own sorrow. Her unreasonable resentment chilled 
and discouraged him. Life looked darker to him than 
ever now. In his trouble his thoughts reverted yearn- 
ingly to her who had perished for love of him. Now 
he understood what a cloud had rested upon even the 
fairest years of her life. Ah ! if he had adhered to the 
intention of his boyhood he would have had at this 
trying time a companion who, though she could not 
have inspired him with faith or hope, would have sym- 
pathized with him to the utmost. 

The news of Eugene’s defection soon spread among 
all his friends and relatives, and produced great surprise 
and horror. To the good people of Greenbrier it seemed 
a terrible calamity that the promising youth whom they 
had known from the days of his boyhood, and in whose 
success as a minister they had gloried, should have re- 
nounced his calling and confessed to a state of utter 
skepticism. 

“He might as well have married Emily after all,” 
remarked one old woman to a neighbor. 

“Yes; only, if he had, poor Emily would have been 
obliged to bear the blame of her husband’s change of 
views,” was the reply. 

“I guess that is true enough,” said the first. “Per- 


64 From Sunlight to Shade. 

haps it is better that she did not live to bear that 
blame.” 

Mrs. Lamar was quite broken-hearted, and her hus- 
band manifested an unforgiving spirit. He was a 
worldly-minded man, and had been very proud of his 
son, and the thought that, from being a popular min- 
ister, the latter had come to be a criticised and scorned 
apostate, filled him with bitter resentment. 

“What will he do now?” he said to his wife. “I 
rather guess he didn’t look before he took that leap. 
He was brought up for nothing but the ministry, and he 
won’t find it very easy to get his bread, now that he 
has shaken his fist in the face of the Church. Well, 
let him starve ; I’ll never be guilty of advancing him a 
penny.” 

“You will never be called upon to do so,” 6aid Mrs. 
Lamar, with spirit. “He will speedily find some sort 
of occupation, and succeed, too.” 

“He doesn’t deserve to succeed,” grumbled the father. 
“I beg your pardon, he does,” said Mrs. Lamar. 
“Any one deserves to succeed who makes a sacrifice for 
conscience’s sake.” 

Disappointed though the mother was, her sense of 
right made her her 6on’s champion. 

Shortly after leaving the ministry, Eugene sett] 

down to the prosaic occupation of clerking in a book 


The Apostate. 


65 


store. It was a business entirely unsuited to his tastes, 
but at that time it seemed to be his only chance. So he 
bravely struggled on, putting energy and conscience 
into his work, but constantly hoped that an oppor- 
tunity for engaging in something more congenial would 
present itself. 

Every day some trying experience served to weaken 
his faith in human nature. His former parishioners, 
with but few exceptions, looked down upon him now, 
and continually showed their lack of respect in various 
ways. 

“Hello ! old man ! You in here ? Found your proper 
level, eh?” said an elderly person of the masculine 
gender, generally called a gentleman, as he sauntered 
one day into the store where Eugene was working. 
The tone was friendly, but the contempt was unmis- 
takable, and the high-spirited young man flushed. 

“Here I do not have to sacrifice my conscience,” he 
reqlied, quietly but with flashing eyes. 

These daily slights and sneers would have been less 
distressing to him had he found sympathy in his wife; 
but instead of cheering him she plainly showed that she 
was ashamed of him. 

At last Hebron became such a hateful place to 
Eugene that he determined to try his fortune elsewhere. 

“I must go where I am unknown,” he told his wife. * 


66 From Sunlight to Shade 

“It is unbearable to be constantly meeting those who 
used to be friends but are such no longer.” 

“You are quite right/’ sighed Celia. “Let us bury 
ourselves and our shame in a place where no one knows 
what a fall we have had.” 

“Not our shame , Celia,” corrected Eugene, somewhat 
sternly. “You take an utterly wrong view of the 
matter.” 

“Well, pray, when we are settled anew, never allude 
to your past life,” begged the wife. 

“I have no wish to hide my past from view. Let 
people take me for what I am. If they despise me 
because I have done an honorable thing, let them do so ; 
the bitterness lies in being scorned by those who once 
were friendly,” said Eugene. 

“I do not deny that it was honorable for you to 
leave the ministry under the circumstances,” said Celia. 
“What I deplore is that such horrid doubts ever en- 
tered your mind. Had it not been for them you would 
now be an honored priest in the Church.” 

The Lamars found their new home in Harrisburg, 
where Eugene secured a situation as teacher in an 
academy. Under the influence of pleasanter surround- 
ings and congenial labor, his spirits revived somewhat, 
but he was far from being happy, His sad experiences 
had crushed out the enthusiasm of youth; the future 


67 


The Apostate. 

seemed to have but little to offer, and he carried about 
with him a depressing, aging sense of failure. His 
hopeful, confident boyhood seemed a long distance in 
the background. His face bore a careworn expression, 
and already showed lines traced by the chisel of trouble. 

Celia, too, had altered wonderfully since the days 
in which she attracted Eugene by her sunny countenance 
and cheerful conversation. Disappointment and dis- 
satisfaction had clouded the sunshine in her eyes and 
deadened the ring of hope in her voice. She was no 
longer the magnet she had been. Still, her zeal in re- 
ligious work caused her to be generally admired by 
her church acquaintances. Many of these also pitied 
her. When questioned in regard to her husband’s 
belief, she would answer briefly that he was skeptical, 
and hasten to change the subject. Then one of her 
friends would remark to another: 

“What a pity she is so mismated ! Has no sympathy 
from her husband in all this work to which she gives 
herself so devotedly.” 

Then it would be announced that “Mr. Lamar him- 
self” had confessed to having been brought up in the 
Catholic faith, and the pity for his wife would deepen. 

“Poor woman! So much worse for her than if he 
had always been an unbeliever!” 

Later would come the electrifying news that Mr. 


68 From Sunlight to Shade. 

Lamar had actually been a clergyman in the Episcopal 
Church, only to turn skeptic at last and prove false to 
his vows. Then the pity for Mrs. Lamar would reach 
its highest pitch. 

“Oh! how dreadful for her, poor woman. And she 
,uch an enthusiastic Church worker! I don’t wondex 
he can’t bear to mention the subject.” 

But no one seemed to think that perhaps Mr. Lamar 
needed a little sympathy too. 

Eugene was not content to remain a skeptic, any 
more than Emily had been. He studied first one creed 
and then another, trying to find one which he could 
accept as being thoroughly reasonable. 

“And yet,” he said to himself, “having found such a 
creed, I fear I should still be skeptical. Oh ! for a reve- 
lation to clear away all lurking doubts and establish me 
in clearly-seen truth!” 

After a long and weary search he was rewarded by 
a few glimmerings of light. He was not entirely 
dependent upon what he read for his views. At times 
an idea found in some book would impress him, and, 
after considering it well, he would come to adopt it 
as his own ; but again, when he had received no outside 
suggestion, an opinion would form itself in his mind, 
and afterward he would find the same conviction 


The Apostate. 69 

echoed in his reading. Literature was merely an aid 
to his growth. He was living in an age of independent 
thought, of broad views, and could not have escaped 
the influence of the times even had he never opened 
a book or a magazine. The first effect of his mental 
environment had been to break up his erroneous beliefs. 
This meant skepticism. The soul, alarmed at the sud- 
den tottering of the foundation upon which it had so 
long and confidently rested, knew not where next to 
place its trust. But this was only the transition stage. 
Gradually new foundations succeeded the old, and the 
troubled soul again experienced the restfulness of 
faith. 

But Eugene had to pursue his mental journey all 
alone. He tried to persuade his wife to read the views 
of broad-minded men, but she refused to do so, believing 
that broad-mindedness was induced by the devil. 

“The different churches are not entirely wrong,” 
he told her; “each hns a part of the truth, and we 
must be gleaners, accepting that which seems good to 
us, and rejecting the rest. We are not to limit our- 
selves to what the ancient fathers knew. We are here 
to look forward, not backward. The voice of progress 
is the voice of God. In order to advance continually 
we must be constantly reconstructing our views.” 


70 From Sunlight to Shade. 

“So you do acknowledge that there is a God?” said 
Celia. 

“Certainly I do. My doubt of His existence was 
merely a stepping-stone to a better comprehension of 
Him.” 

“You have changed Him so that I do not recognize 
Him at all,” pouted Celia. 

“Is not my conception of God a more glorious one 
than yours?” asked Eugene. 

“I don’t know. I am satisfied with understanding 
what the Church teaches, without constructing pretty 
religious fables to pin my faith to,” was the reply. 

Eugene sighed. That was the trouble, she was sat- 
isfied. Probably she always would be. 


A son and a daughter were born to this mismated 
couple. At first, their coming seemed to be a blessing 
to both father and mother. The love of these con- 
fiding, innocent little ones was very grateful to the 
starved heart of Eugene. Here were two beings, near 
and dear, whose affection was not mixed with dissatis- 
faction. As for Celia, her maternal cares occupied her 
mind to the partial exclusion of the great disappoint- 
ment of her life. She found less time in which to 
lament her husband’s apostasy and make him miserable. 

This state of comparative peace did not last long, how- 


The Apostate. 71 

ever. As the children grew older, Celia began to be anx- 
ious lest they should imbibe the “strange views” of their 
father. They were her consolation, and should they dis- 
appoint her hopes she would be wretched indeed. If Har- 
lowe did not become a minister it would surely not be her 
fault, and she fondly hoped that Fannie would marry 
one. She commenced their religious instruction early, 
and sent them to Sunday-school almost as soon as they 
could toddle. She told them that there was “but one 
Church,” and they, taking her words literally, supposed 
that the house of worship which they attended was 
the only one in the whole world. 

One day little three-year-old Fannie, hearing her 
mother say that each succeeding year saw more persons 
in the Church, remarked, in childish wonder: 

“Mamma, the church isn't large enough to hold 
many more. They'll have to build more on to it 
pretty soon, won't they?” 

But Celia, engrossed in conversation with a friend, 
hardly heard her. 

A few days later, as Fannie was out riding with her 
mother, her attention was attracted by a large, fine 
looking building surmounted by a glistening steeple. 
At once one little index finger went out in the direc- 
tion of the imposing object, and the baby voice asked: 

“Mamma, what's that?” 


72 


From Sunshine to Shade. 


“That’s a church, dear.” 

“Why, I thought you said there was only one church,” 
exclaimed Fannie, staring up at her mother in sur- 
prise. Then Celia endeavored to make the meaning 
of that statement clear to the mind of the little one, 
but her explanation was only dimly understood. 

Eugene never made the least objection to the children’s 
being baptized and taught their catechism, but Celia 
was not so tolerant. 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk over your strange views 
before Harlowe and Fannie,” she said one day to her 
husband. “They notice what you say, and I’m afraid 
it will make an impression upon them.” 

Eugene sighed, but he was careful after that to 
avoid expatiating upon his theories when the children 
were by. Celia’s anxieties did not end here, however. 
When Harlowe and Fannie had learned to read, she 
began to fear lest their faith in the Church teachings 
be shaken by the heretical literature strewn about the 
house. 

“I don’t dare to forbid their reading this, that and 
the other, for you know forbidden things are the most 
attractive,” she said to a friend. “If I don’t say any- 
thing, it will be just the same, though, for they show 
a disposition to read any and everything. I shall 


The Apostate. 73 

just have to look on while they do as they please. I 
can’t lock up Eugene’s books and papers.” 

“But if your influence over them is pretty strong, 
it will be an easy matter to make them believe that 
what they read contrary to Church doctrine is mere 
nonsense,” said the friend. 

“I hope my influence will prove strong enough for 
that,” said Celia. 

She set about in good earnest to prevent the spread 
of “false doctrine” in her household. By a word now 
and then, and an occasional meaning look, she ac- 
complished her purpose. 

“Mamma, what’s a heretic?” little Harlowe asked 
one day, looking up from the book he was reading. 

Celia saw her opportunity, and improved it. 

“Well, papa is a heretic,” she answered. 

Harlowe’s eyes widened with shocked surprise. He 
supposed a heretic to be a decidedly reprehensible per- 
son, and did not understand how his father could 
be such an individual. 

“Is papa a heretic?” he asked. “What has he done 
to make him one?” 

“Any one who believes things that are contrary to 
the teachings of the Church is a heretic,” said Celia. 

“Why doesn’t papa believe in the Church?” queried 
Harlowe. 


74 


From Sunshine to Shade. 


“Fm sure I don’t know,” replied Celia. “He used 
to, but now he thinks that such a book as that which 
you’re reading can teach him more than the Church. 
He reads so much silly stuff!” 

“Is this silly stuff, mamma?” 

“Yes, dear, that’s all it is. It is just what some 
foolish man has imagined about God.” 

Thus taught by the mother, these children gradually 
lost respect for their father, and thus ceased to show 
it. To Celia’s delight, they gave up exploring hi" 
heretical reading matter, feeling that it was beneath 
their notice. One day a little girl who was spending 
the afternoon at the Lamar house picked up a boo!: 
that she found on the sitting-room sofa, and opener] 
it, asking what it was. Harlowe looked over he? 
shoulder at the title, and then said, with an impatient 
toss of the head: 

“Oh! that doesn’t amount to anything. That’s just 
one of papa’s books!” 

Papa, sitting in the study beyond, heard this and 
sighed sadly. “Would a child of Emily’s ever have 
spoken thus?” he asked himself. 

“Poor Emily! Had I married her we might have 
grown into the truth together,” he soliloquized, as he 
sat with his head in his hands. “In any case she 
would not have despised me.” 


75 


The Apostate. 

Yes, he had made a mistake, and was realizing 
it more and more. It was true, he could not call 
his life a failure; he was growing in mental stature; 
he was sowing his golden thoughts broadcast through 
the land; he was rousing other minds to activity; 
kindred spirits were finding him out; he already had 
a circle of sympathetic friends: but in his face could 
be seen a soul-hunger that seemed destined never to 
be satisfied in this world, the hunger for sympathy at 
home. With a loving, helpful wife, and children 
combining respect with affection, he could have easily 
dispensed with outside sympathizers ; but his little knot 
of congenial associates could not compensate him for 
the lack of domestic harmony. 

Of what might he not have been capable under 
different circumstances? 


THE Em 






* 



































/ 


\ 


JAN 5 1901 




Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
Ill Thomson Park Drive 
M3 Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412) 779-2111 






